


time's up

by desertbloom



Category: Tekken (Video Games)
Genre: Loosely Canon Compliant, M/M, endgame jinhwoa, platonic xiaojin because she deserves better, post tekken 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertbloom/pseuds/desertbloom
Summary: Jin is held accountable for his crimes in the aftermath of war.1. Xiaoyu and Jin reunite, she's not sure if he's aware of what happened to Hwoarang.2. Lars updates him on events regarding his last fight with him.3. Hwoarang explains himself. Sort of.
Relationships: Hwoarang/Kazama Jin, Kazama Jin & Ling Xiaoyu
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	1. Xiaoyu

**Author's Note:**

> im posting this as of 2am and its not proof read but if i dont post it now im gonna chicken out tomorrow

Xiaoyu follows the guard close by at first through the grey corridors of the prison, but as they approach the visiting room prepared for the occasion, air getting colder with each step, her conviction falters and the distance with the man in front of her keeps growing. Even if she’s firm in her decision, she’s not that sure her emotions won’t betray her once inside.

“We’re here” the guard announces nonchalantly. When the young visitor doesn’t respond, he sighs and offers her a pack of tissue paper, “I went to university in China, your accent sounds familiar.”

Hesitant towards his courtesy, she accepts the paper nonetheless and lies about her hometown. No need to disclose personal information.

“Either way,” he continues, catching on to the boundaries he’s just trespassed “you came a long way just to see him. I have orders to go get you inside in thirty minutes, so be brief. And make the most of it.”

For a moment she resents the time limit she wasn’t informed of beforehand, but the man has no control over it in the end, it’s just his job. A very easy part of his job, considering he must deal with a whole lot worse on daily basis, violent prisoners and child abusers and whatnot. Must be refreshing to show kindness to a person around here. 

She’s not one to be fooled with basic courtesy though.

“I’ll time with my phone once I’m already inside” she finally answers blankly, all trace of emotion gone. “So not a minute less.”

The guard shrugs and opens the door for her.

The bright neon lights expose the wide, muscular form of the captive man, accusatory. Jin looks up to her immediately from his sitting position on the floor, and if the luminosity of the room makes their eyes seem shiny for a second, neither of them comments on it. 

The japanese shifts in his spot attempting to stand up, but Xiaoyu notices -leaving his eyes for the first time- that his arms have been constricted all the way up with chains and belts from behind his back and motions him to stay still. She had expected to see him behind bars as thick as those in front of her, in handcuffs even, but not this way.

“There’s a stool over there” he points with his chin towards the back of the room.

“I’m not scared of a filthy floor, Jin” she quips sitting, with her legs crossed over the fabric of her coat.

It’s inconvenient, the way seeing him smile after so long makes her chest hurt. If she’s not careful the wetness in her eyes will ruin the moment, so she falls back into a formal demeanor again to force a bit of control on her emotions.

“Thank you for adding me to your visitors list.”

“Thank you for coming” he mirrors her tone of voice, quiet and slow. “It’s really just you.”

In other circumstances, it might mean something to her. Not that a world terrorist would be allowed to have social life, anyway.

She looks away for a second, the weight of it all too much to focus on it right now, but she needs answers. 

“Is this where they keep you?” she asks, noticing the emptiness of his small cell and a lack of marks on the wall.

He shakes his head.

“Was moved here momentarily for privacy.”

Xiaoyu feels lost, that’s far too many privileges for a criminal of his calibre.

“Do they know who you are?” the question makes her mouth dry. 

“The UN hasn’t settled on which nation will get my trial, so my identity cannot be divulged as of yet. Someone I know in the Force arranged this.”

He can’t explain further than what she already assumes, or he doesn’t want to reveal it to her. But it’s enough. They have been estranged for too long, and a chance to see each other like this again remains uncertain, so the conversation ventures into old memories and nostalgia. She had never told him before that she was grateful for having him by her side in high school, when other students picked on her for being a public Mishima protege. He did send her a warning later years ago to protect her. She’s sorry for making him carry Panda on more than one occasion towards a vet way past midnight. He asks how his cousin is doing out there.

It’s two old friends catching up, and Xiaoyu feels warm and grateful for having a chance to have this after so many years chasing him, but they both act like they won’t get it again. It's painful.

Soon, the door opens and without notice the guard from before announces it’s time to go. Xiaoyu checks her phone and demands two minutes more she’s entitled to.

They need to say their goodbyes quickly, without a moment to spare. Xiaoyu doesn’t duell on her emotions this time, a question lingering from the beginning she will regret not asking.

“You said there was nobody else in the list” she ventures, hoping Jin will fill in the blanks.

The guard bangs on the door at the entrance, impatient. 

“There.. isn’t” Jin assures her, half confused by the sudden topic right at the end of their little reunion, half amused at the fact she hasn’t even attempted to move from her sitting position despite the guard’s pressing.

“Your friend, “ she hesitates, already regretting her choice of words under the japanese’s puzzled frown “the korean biker. Did you already talk to him-?”

“Miss, I’m going to have to physically escort you outside!” the guard growls, making his way inside.

“I’m coming!” she retorts, shoving his hands away from her arm. Then she turns to Jin “He’s been searching for you.”

The japanese holds his upper weight against the cell and starts lifting himself up at the same time the guard tugs on her. 

“He’s always searched for a fight.”

Xiaoyu feels a little desperate now, dominating her impulse to flip the man pushing her by the shoulders while evaluating what information, what parts of the story she’s allowed to tell and what’s not up to her to communicate to her friend.

“I can walk by myself!” the guard stares at his hands like he’s just done magic trick after she ducks and pulls one of her fighting stances, almost touching the ground. “Please ask mr. Alexandersson” she pleads at Jin, and then walks away from the guard’s range.

They regard each other one last time once she reaches the door, an apologetic smile on her face, and then she’s gone.


	2. Lars

Jin becomes aware of the silence in the room long past the multiple teams of lawyers have abandoned the office room. Mostly because his headache has dissipated, but also because his half uncle turned-resistance-leader-against-his-crimes turned-his-very-own-prison-babysitter has purposefully closed the heavy binder on the table with a little too much force for it not to be deliberate. 

“Would appreciate a bit more humbleness from your part, is all I’m saying” Lars grits through his teeth, folding his hands in front of him with a blank expression that seems to hurt him physically.

Jin sighs, it’s too early for a scolding. Or too late. He can’t really tell the pass of time inside the thick walls of the prison’s bunker.

“What difference would it make?” the japanese retorts. “Is modesty a new currency out there nowadays?”

Lars’s nostrils expand, a sign of his patience edging at his limit. The meeting must have been pretty heated if he’s this irritated.

“You might as well consider it a requirement in this settlement from now on” Lars threatens. “Your tax haven money is paying _them_ to deal with your trial, not me.”

“I didn’t ask for your services.”

“I don’t have an option.”

But, actually, he did at the beginning. He could either participate in the case _against_ Jin Kazama and the many trials it would involve to actually charge him, fighting for every single crime to be persecuted, and then struggle to seek an appropriate punishment that would leave the surviving victims and general public at peace; or he could join his defense and deal with a whole lot less of paperwork. 

At the end of the day, he cares about humanity’s safety enough to risk his life to stop a threat such as his nephew, but the aftermath is none of his business. In all honesty, he still has an option to quit the defense, but the sooner he gets out of his military duties the better.

“Not after witnessing the legal gymnastics these lawyers have prepared, anyways.” he complains, flipping fast some of the files in the binder. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

“I don’t care” Jin shrugs, genuinely indifferent. “I know I will get cleared out. How it happens is not my concern.”

And as arrogant as he sounds, Lars knows the Mishima wealth is more than enough to navigate a corrupted legal system.

“You should be thankful America was granted your trial. Japanese people are on the streets asking for your beheading, you know?”

Jin tenses for a second, too short for the other man to notice. The protesters have slowed down the process at times, making the prosecution attorneys rework their demands and cancelling meetings in fear of getting mobbed in public for not pleading a satisfying case. 

Suddenly the locks on his arms tying him to the chair feel tighter. He can’t move around the prison by foot, instead getting manhandled and pushed around in a restraining wheelchair. Sometimes he feels he’ll lose control.

The guards don’t pay much attention to him down at permanent solitary confinement, but he can hear them through the walls betting on assumptions about his unusual accomodations. Most of them are already aware of his terrorist background, but some believe he’s terminally ill, contagious even; others swear he’s a skilled escapist. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t entertained, rather involuntarily, the idea of showing them the true reason.

“I revoked my nationality years ago,” he holds his breath, concentrating and letting out a small noise of relief when his forearms morph into rough skin, almost stone like, with long claws growing out of the edge of the armrest “they don’t have a say in the matter.”

The tattoos on the japanese’s forehead are gone as fast as they appear, as well as his body modifications, but Lars doesn’t miss the metallic noise of shackles stretching out. His dumbfounded expression is worth the ordeal.

“Do that one more time and I’ll have you put in a shock collar.” 

“Would you have loosen them up if I asked nicely?” Jin represses a smile, he has nothing to do all day in his cell except when there’s a scheduled meeting, and the swedish officer makes up for a punching bag well enough, even if he can only throw verbal punches in his position. He is the man that put him there, after all.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Lars stands up, knocking his chair backwards in the process, and bangs his palms on the table. There’s a reaction, at last. “You can splurge your blood stained money on trials and useless bribery for the rest of your life, for all I care, but if the higher ups find out about your family heritage, it’s over. I won’t be here to hold your hand, they will take you in for experimentation and you’ll lose any human right you’re entitled to in a prison.” And he himself might suffer the same fate, given their blood relationship.

Jin says nothing, just stares past the exasperated, yelling man. It’s no fun when he gets serious.

“Would serve you good, after all you’ve done” the swedish concludes, almost a murmur, and starts rearranging the furniture with regained composure. “The prosecution got a hold of Eddy Gordo,” he reports, approaching Jin’s side of the table, who seems unconcerned with the information “I heard they’re not going easy on former Mishima Zaibatsu employees.”

Jin spares him a hostile glance, as if saying “and what about it?”.

“In your statement you declared he was a no more than a bodyguard for you, regardless of his service in the Tekken Force. Are you certain about that?” before the japanese has a chance to reply, Lars continues, placing a hand on the top of the restraining chair to level himself so they’re seeing eye to eye. “You don’t have a reason to believe he possesses sensitive information about the Devil Gene now, do you?”

“He only followed orders, wasn’t particularly interested in the company’s intelligence. I barely remember him.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

Jin raises an eyebrow, annoyed that this is even a conversation. “Yes.”

Lars turns his back to him and releases a loud, tired sigh, hands on his hips.

“The chinese girl you made me flew here,” Jin already knows where this is going, but he regrets absolutely nothing “you suspected she knew about it because you trained together under Heihachi’s discipline around the same time the Devil started taking control of your body.”

“I was wrong, I guess.”

“You guess..” he mocks, incredulous “I reached a deal with my superior so that she didn’t have to go through us, and let you handle it by yourself to spare her the interrogation. I brought her here for questioning, not for you to have a chat like school sweethearts.”

Jin takes a long intake of air. He can’t say he didn’t see it coming.

“Tell me, did you really think we’d let you go in there without wiring the whole room?”

“Can’t say I didn’t” the japanese wants to say, but abstains in order to reduce the yelling. He’s already sensory overloaded with his head pulsing, so he settles for going over the conversation with his old friend. It was comforting to have a little piece of peace back in his life, even if short lived. Her request at the end of their reunion pulls him back from trance.

Lars is now scolding him for making him look bad in front of his superiors, apparently.

“Actually,” Jin interrupts “there is someone who came face to face with the Devil, and lived to tell the tale.”

“I’m not falling for this trick again, you moron.”

“There’s medical reports the Mishima Zaibatsu had to confiscate from the hospital, where he spent some time in a comma. You can look it up, if you’d like.”

Still hesitant, Lars takes a seat and breathes heavily with his eyes closed until he’s ready to go on.

“And this person is..?” he taps the table with each finger in a rhythmical way.

“An Iron Fist competitor, goes by the name Hwoarang.” Upon saying his name out loud, his heart skips a beat. There’s a slight chance Lars does have information about his whereabouts and his status, and Xiaoyu didn’t seem comfortable with what she knew.

Lars contemplates not giving in his nephew’s demands, he knows he’s being manipulated just as he knows he can’t risk having a witness to the devil form running free. Not now, when he’s almost done with his mess. 

He pulls out a tablet and types the name, although it sounds familiar he can’t really put a face to it. After reading what Jin assumes are his personal notes in the official reports, he finally gets an accusatory response “You said he was after the Mishima Zaibatsu, but he was harmless. Does the leader of the resistance seem harmless to you?”

So he had been searching for Jin, as Xiaoyu assured him, only his quest was to bring him to justice.

“He went through all that and then took a grenade for you.” Lars recalls with a sigh.

What

“At the time we had more pressing matters, so I took your word for it and handed his case to a lower rank. But this makes no sense.”

Despite of his skill to hide his emotions, Jin is a person easy to read, Lars notes. As a trained soldier, he can see right through the cracks in his facade, as diminute as they may be. Jin is usually so stoic that a brief flash of emotion stands out in his sharp features. 

It’s the first time in a long time Lars actually has the upper hand, so he exploits it in his favour. He tells him in gruesome detail how bad the resistance leader’s eye injury was when he crawled up to his truck, through bullets and smoke, and demanded he’d be taken along with the devil form of his rival. 

“I didn’t have much time to waste on him, but I did see him kick you out of the grenade’s range and take the blow for you. Even though you two were fighting. I couldn’t understand it at the moment, or now, but we needed to flee the place and he was kicking on the windshield, dropping blood everywhere. So I took him in for the ride.”

“I didn’t see him at the facilities you took me to.”

“He didn’t make it.”

Lars savours the look of panic in the japanese’s face, the assumption clear in his eyes. Just for a moment.

“He passed out in the car before we arrived, so he was taken to a nearby hospital by a human rights volunteer.”

Jin looks away, something heavier shadowing his relief. Not guilt, Lars observes, maybe disappointment?

“The reports of his surveillance are rather brief, he’s a sneaky one, your rival.”

“Where is he now?” Jin asks, forgetting who he’s talking to.

“You’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” Lars teases, standing up to leave. “We’ll take care of his interrogation. In the meantime, you can figure out why he chased you across half the world as an enemy just to end up helping you in the end. I’ll see you next tuesday.”

The swedish feels satisfied, if a little harsh about manipulating a prisoner emotionally. But his nephew isn’t someone to feel sorry for, he reminds himself, and heads out towards the door to let the guards know he’s ready to leave. His resolve falters a little when he hears Jin whisper “shouldn't you know?”


	3. Hwoarang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having trouble writing the second half of this part, so I divided it into two chapters :'v hopefully it's for the better

He is trained as a soldier, not a trained soldier. Even if he hadn’t been discharged from what was left of his obligatory service, he was never a genuine member of the military. The distinction is important.

It was written in his record that he lacked discipline, but he excels at it. Might be his most resourceful ability, indeed. It’s what carried him through years of tricking overly confident suckups in the streets for their money, and his service in the military was just another scam, albeit long lasting. He was there to pick up what he considered useful, including strategy and weapon manipulation that he later would apply as a leader of the resistance, while complying and cooperating just enough to get his way. Once he was done gathering resources, he simply moved on.

Enhanced interrogation methods had to be exercised for the investigation’s sake, due to this applied knowledge of more ordinary tactics, which he endures as decorously as the better qualified agents aiding the Tekken Force in western territory. He misleads questions both with his answers and his body language, as if he’s two steps ahead of the interrogator’s hypothesis, and favors a physical provocation rather than sticking to verbal violence.

“It’s nothing compared to the real thing American troops submit korean conscripts to during enlistment” Hwoarang taunts, sitting up straight so the chains joining his wrist and ankle handcuffs rattle with the movement. Now, it’s not his business which parts they got wrong and which parts are unconfirmed assumptions, but he’s not gonna sit comfortably while the results of his torture are reported nonchalantly in front of him like this either.

He’s met with indifference, though.

“That’s not to say he’s not susceptible to reiterated practice” the american agent rushes to clarify, before Officer Alexandersson can express his disapproval.

“So what do you have?” the swedish cuts off, notably frustrated.

Hwoarang snorts, even with one of his nostrils still bleeding and a sore throat he can’t help letting out a laugh. They have nothing but a convenient alibi, and that’s all they’re getting from him. His detention has dragged out for so long they’re desperate for any kind of information at this point. Amateurs.

The agent spares him a glance behind his sunglasses, as if searching for a sign of deception that went unnoticed until now, and turns to his superior with no other choice but to reveal their findings. “He took the grenade’s blow to spare the damage of the then fugitive prisoner, so the trial wouldn’t be delayed once captured and negotiations of his sentence wouldn’t fall through due to humanitarian release.”

His story checks in to anybody with half a brain cell: he lead the operations to catch Jin Kazama around the world, then sacrificed himself for the benefit of the mission. The press had filled in the blanks and thrown themselves at the fastest martyr they could find like vultures. The Mishimas’ dead victims couldn’t talk, after all, but he was the next best compassion exploitation target at hand.

However, the Tekken Force Officer isn’t as easy to fool “I can turn on Rebecca on channel 5 in the morning show and hear the same statement” he retorts with an eye roll, then looks in the korean’s direction for the first time as he approaches the cell bars separating them from each other. “Listen, I want to help you but you’re not giving me a lot to work with here.”

“Save your pity, Alexandersson” Hwoarang huffs, his foot bouncing rapidly against the cold floor.

“Nobody has come forward back in South Korea to look into your detention, so you might as well take it.”

Hwoarang could tell that much by himself, but a part of him had hoped for the press to be able to intervene. With nobody noticing his disappearance though, that would surely take long enough for him to become a permanent resident at the prison.

“You were implicated in aiding a war terrorist” the swedish starts again, calm and patronizing “and there’s plenty of evidence suggesting you were associated with him prior and during the conflict.”

That gets a chuckle out of him. As if. “So were you.”

“And yet you’re the one sitting behind bars.”

It’s true that they both had taken the same side at some point in the war, but Lars had payed a huge price for it. The korean had abstained from giving a testimony in court, had avoided the persecution team and disengaged from any kind of responsibility regarding his role in the resistance. Lars had been demoted.

Hwoarang stands up, never dropping the smile from his mouth, and gives the other two men the satisfaction of watching him struggle to walk up to the cell bars in small steps.

“And do the sides make a difference for you?” he snickers, staring right into the swedish’s eye through the metal bars. “I might not have come out of it in one piece, Alexasandersson, but I owe those state dogs nothing. You’ll waste your whole life trying to work up your treason against them with a leash on your neck tied to this shit hole.”

Lars stares at him for a moment, perhaps evaluating if arguing a justification for his own decisions to a detainee is indeed worth his current paycheck. “Fine. You’ll make me company” he sighs, then clangs the metal of one of his vambraces twice against the cell bars, out of the korean’s vision field, who blinks somewhat startled at the proximity of the noise to the injured part of his face, still unused to partial blindness. “Just don’t get too comfortable.”

Hwoarang regains his composure and slowly steps away from the cell bars, careful not to be caught with his guard off again, until he reaches the edge of the cement seat and plops himself to his original sitting position, as if to defy his captor. “I’ve done nothing but.”

Lars rests his forearm against the metal bars and holds his weight against it, almost entertained. “Sustaining a wound out of impulsivity is less heroic than what your local newspapers have you believe, kid.”

“I did what I had to do.” he looks away, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. “Call it what you will.”

“Stupid. But the jury might go a little harsher.”

Hwoarang closes his eye and smirks, genuinely amused.

“If I get charged with conspiracy, I might get repatriated in the best case scenario to serve a sentence. And I don’t have the resources to buy myself out of jail. But you choose to serve a sentence voluntarily inside these walls, because they said you had to. Your reputation hangs by a thread at the mercy of the man you risked everything for, just to follow the protocols of an institution that treats you like a traitor. You and I are not that different, “ he pauses, glancing up “except you are a true soldier.”

Lars stares at him in silence, a humorous shadow cast across his face, carefully contemplating his next move. When it looks like he’s about to reply, he chooses to not to and taps the cell bar with the back of his index and middle finger, as if to alert the agent who has been browsing his phone during this short exchange with the prisoner.

The smirk is still in place when they both leave.

A few hours later he wakes up from a sleep he’s drifted to, in spite of the inconvenient position and the cold cement doing nothing to accommodate his body, when a guard slides open the cell bars. He’s usually taken from solitary confinement straight to an interrogation room and back, so he had assumed he’d only be there temporarily, but that’s usually in upper floors. It’s the first time they take him down to the dungeon.

They leave him inside a fancy room, fluorescent white light invading every inch, to stare at the walls. With a lot of effort that leaves neck pain which will surely develop into torticollis, he manages to turn his head enough to inspect the part of the room behind him, and notices high class security equipment inside a --presumably bullet proof-- glass box. Show offs.

He’s begun to feel like a laboratory rat for a new kind of torture inspired by everyone’s favorite Netflix cyber dystopian series, with nothing to do but to sit and watch the almost invisible flickering of the lights, when the door upfront unlocks to let in a guard, then another, two more, and then a person escorted inside by the group of guards, with no distinguishable uniform or institutional ornaments.

“If you try to bite another guard, we’ll have your teeth removed” the man in charge threatens while another unscrews something in the back of the civilian’s neck, whose head stays inclined downwards for better access to his nape.

Judging by their shabby, unfitting clothes Hwoarang guesses it’s probably another inmate. A fun one, considering they put him in a muzzle. 

A metallic block encases their hands in an awkward position, where the elbows are twisted in an awkward angle that makes the reverse of the hands face each other, thus preventing any possibility to bend their arms. He almost hopes they will take those off too, if only to cause some mischief. One of his own arms is handcuffed to the chair, so he can’t do much, but he would trust a restrained prisoner to misbehave.

All doubt is however removed when the device comes off, and the other half of Jin Kazama’s very apathetic face is exposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for Lars acting ooc, I needed someone to play an antagonistic role and he was available o<-< I guess it is also his Mishima birth right to be an asshole at some point in his life sksjk


End file.
